


Heard It Through the Grapevine

by LittleMousling



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Everyone Thinks They're Together, First Time, M/M, Mutual Pining, Rimming, White House era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 20:37:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11905755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling
Summary: Most of the White House thinks Tommy and Lovett are dating. It's easy to see why.





	Heard It Through the Grapevine

**Author's Note:**

> Please keep it on the DL as always, guys! ::sacrifices a lamb shank to the fourth wall, may it be ever our protection::
> 
> Many thanks to [la_dissonance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/la_dissonance/pseuds/la_dissonance) for helping me with the arc! <333

The first time Tommy picks up on it, it’s because Cody’s being a jerk.

“All I’m asking is for, like, _one_ weekend where we just hang out together and no one’s trying to get laid on the couch while I avoid eye contact,” Tommy says. “Not even a whole weekend! We’re all going to be at work on Saturday! Just, like, Saturday night through Sunday brunch. Boys’ time.”

“That’s so unfair,” Cody says. Tommy’s rebuttal instantly starts writing itself inside his head: Cody’s going to say that just because Tommy doesn’t seem to want to get laid lately, that doesn’t mean he can force that on them, and Tommy will say that it has nothing to do with that; that he’s just tired lately, and he wants to be able to enjoy his one weekend night in his home without Cody and Michael bringing random girls home and macking on them in the main areas.

Well—Tommy probably won’t say “macking on them” in his actual rebuttal.

“... all loved up, doesn’t mean the rest of us should have to go without. It’s all well and good for you to call it ‘boys’ time’ when you get it in-house!”

“Wait,” Tommy says. That wasn’t part of Cody’s speech inside his head. “What?”

“If you can be all over Lovett in the living room—and the kitchen, and the patio, and at the office—you don’t get to say I can’t use my tiny amounts of free time to try to get laid. That’s ridiculous.”

“ _What_ ,” Tommy says again. It rings in his own ears. “Lovett?”

Cody squints at him. “Look, don’t try to—this is not a homophobic stance, okay? This is all about equality. You get laid, I get laid, everybody gets laid.”

“I ... need a drink,” Tommy says. He steps back from Cody, back and back until he’s in the kitchen, and grabs the nearest bottle to his hand, a handle of Tito’s that Favs brought to the last party. “I need several drinks,” he mutters to himself.

The front door opens and shuts, bells jangling. Tommy hates those bells, useful as they are. “Honey, I’m home!” Jon shouts, snickering, and Tommy’s eyes widen in terror as he hears Cody say, “Lovett—c’mere a minute, I have a question for you.”

Tommy drops the vodka back on the counter—an unexamined benefit of plastic bottles—and throws himself into the living room. “No, he doesn’t!” Tommy says, loudly, and drags Jon away. “Ignore him! Cody and I are having a fight, just between us, we’ll work it out, no need to get involved!”

Jon doesn’t fight him, and Cody, behind them, doesn’t follow. Tommy’s heart is racing. This is all—this is not what he expects of a Thursday night. “Let’s go out,” he tells Jon. “Let’s go down to U Street. See the sights. Drink the beer.”

“Ugh,” Jon says. “Not a sports bar. And you have to buy me nachos. No, mozzarella sticks.”

“Sure. Sure. Yes. Go change. Don’t talk to Cody. Meet you downstairs.”

As soon as Jon’s safely in his room—with not a few strange looks at Tommy—Tommy jets back down the stairs to where Cody’s waiting, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. “Listen,” Tommy says. “It’s not—that’s not—there’s been some confusion.”

“You don’t have to hide it,” Cody says, and his expression lightens. “Seriously, Tommy, it’s not—we all want you guys to be happy. You know that, right? It’s not like you’re keeping it very secret anyway. I mean, kudos on the quiet sex, I guess, but otherwise—” Cody scrubs a hand across his eyes. “This is all beside the point. The point is, if you don’t want to see me hooking up, you can go hang out in your room. Or Lovett’s room. Or the patio.”

Tommy has lost all interest in that argument. “Sure, fine, you win,” he says. “But Lovett and I are not together.”

“Well, whatever the terminology is,” Cody says.

“No, we’re not—we’re just friends.” Tommy emphasizes the last word, then regrets it. “Regular friends. I mean, good friends, but: friends. Just friends. I can’t overstate how wrong you are and how much I need you to not tell Lovett about your wrong and weird and wrong interpretation.”

“What wrong interpretation?” Jon asks, coming down the stairs in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. He looks nice like that, Tommy thinks absently, and then bites the inside of his cheek. _Christ_.

Cody looks at Tommy before he answers. “Tommy has a stupid idea about the timeline for DDR in Afghanistan.”

Jon groans. “No. No talking about national security. It’s eight at night, I just got home—no. I anoint Tommy the winner of the argument, no further discussion. Cody, are you coming out with us?”

“Apparently no one’s coming out,” Cody says, and Tommy glares at him. “Yeah, sure. I’ll text Michael? Tommy’s been wanting ‘boys’ time,’ anyway.”

Tommy glares harder. Jon sees it and comes to knock his shoulder into Tommy’s. “Calm down, you won, I called it. No life-and-death stuff until tomorrow morning, okay? Argue about ... sports, I guess. If you must.” He smirks up at Tommy. “Or you could all arm-wrestle for my amusement. Go change into a t-shirt so I can fully enjoy it.”

Tommy shuts his eyes. Now that Cody’s said something: okay. He sees it. Especially as his instinct, his automatic response, is to punch Jon in the shoulder and slip an arm around his neck. “Michael can meet us there,” he says. “Let’s just get going. Lovett, you have your wallet? Your Metropass?”

“Yes, mother,” Jon says, and then pats his back pocket and makes a face. “No. Give me a second.” He runs upstairs, and Tommy takes a deep breath, waiting for Cody to comment.

Cody ... doesn’t seem to have noticed anything. He’s just texting Michael. “Does Michael think—” Tommy starts to ask, but Jon’s coming back down the stairs, wallet flourished for Tommy’s approval.

Tommy’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out. It’s a text from Cody. _I’m not gonna say anything, but maybe you should._

 _There is nothing to say!_ Tommy sends back, jamming the letters with his fingers. It’s not as satisfying on his personal iPhone as it would be on the work Blackberry.

Cody shrugs at him. “Michael’s gonna meet us there,” he says. “Might bring a couple of the Comms guys. I think Dan.”

Good. Good. Dan is a voice of reason. Tommy can talk to him about this—nonsense.

***

“Wait, you’re not dating at all?” Dan asks. The surprise in his voice is not what Tommy was hoping for out of this interaction. “Like—not even, you know, a bit of friendly, uh, jiggery-pokery?”

“I swear you’re forty years older than you claim to be,” Tommy says. “No! There is no poking of anything! Who else thinks there’s poking? Because this is not good.”

Dan shrugs. “I mean, everyone. It’s not a big deal, it’s just, you know, regular office gossip. You know, David’s got that crush on Emma in the tours office, Favs hooks up with minor celebrities, Tommy and Lovett are big on PDA. It’s just a thing.”

“Big on—we are not! I’ve never kissed Lovett in my life!”

“I guess,” Dan says. “It’s mostly the other stuff. The cuddling and ass-grabbing and stuff. It’s really not a big deal.”

“It’s a very big deal!” Tommy hears his voice getting too high-pitched, and he stops to take deep breaths. “Sorry. Okay. I need to—okay.”

Dan puts a hand on his shoulder. “Look, maybe you should talk to Lovett, if there’s, uh, confusion about the status of your relationship.”

Tommy screams internally, takes Dan’s hand off his shoulder, and grabs and downs Dan’s whisky. “There is no relationship,” he says. “Do not talk to Lovett about this.”

Dan sighs, and tries to flag the bartender down again. It doesn’t look likely to work. Tommy takes his own beer and walks back to the group.

“Well, 538 says—”

“Veto!” Jon shouts at Michael, and everyone laughs, Tommy included. Jon steals Tommy’s beer and sips from it. “No statistics. Statistics are banned.”

“You were a math major,” Tommy points out. “You love statistics.”

“Unfair use of your disturbingly intimate knowledge of my life,” Jon tells him, handing the beer back. “Anyway, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never went to college and I have always hated statistics. I love English literature. All that ... poetry analysis. Yeah.”

Dan wanders back up with a fresh whisky in hand. “We’re talking about poems?”

“No,” Jon says. “We’re just making fun of how much Tommy is obsessed with me.”

“Oh,” Dan says. He blinks at Tommy. “I thought—”

Tommy thinks very seriously about kicking Dan in the shin, and instead says, “Lovett’s just being Lovett. Someone think of a better topic.”

Cody attempts it, valiantly. “Did you see what Boehner said about the cloture vote?”

“Veto,” Jon says again, louder, but Michael’s already responding, and Dan’s leaning in, too. Jon muscles out of the huddle and pulls Tommy with him. “Come with me, I need a beer. Or something pink. Hanging around all you bros is really warping my drinking habits.”

Tommy follows him, because he supposes he doesn’t want to talk about supermajorities, either. He’s still got most of his beer, but there’s room at the bar to stand next to Jon and watch him order “your pinkest cocktail, please.” The bartender smirks at him, but in a flirty way, and then he catches Tommy’s eye and drops the smile. Tommy wonders what his own expression looks like, just now.

Tommy’s phone buzzes. It’s fucking Cody again. _You could date him. Viva la vida or whatever_. Tommy glares at it and puts it away before Jon can see.

“I tried to get Cody and Michael to take the weekend off from bringing girls back to the house,” he says, searching for a neutral topic, “but I think I ended up giving in. After we got distracted by the, uh, Iraq withdrawal argument.”

“Afghanistan,” Jon corrects. “Wasn’t it?”

“Oh. Yeah. Afghanistan.”

His phone buzzes. “Fucking Cody,” Tommy mutters. _Does he know about that dude you dated in college?_

He types back, _IRRELEVANT_ and pockets the phone.

Jon’s drink is violently pink, and he grins and over-tips the bartender. “We should just join in,” Jon says. “You know, if you can’t beat ‘em.”

“Um,” Tommy says, and stops.

As usual, though, Jon doesn’t need any prompt to expand on his theme. “We’ll go out after work on Saturday and pick up—I mean, you go to your places, I’ll go to mine—and bring our own hookups back. At least that’s more fun than trying to play video games while Cody’s halfway to second base next to you.”

“Y-yeah. Not—I mean, instead, we could go hang out on the patio,” Tommy suggests. “Or go out. I haven’t seen a movie outside the screening room in, like ... I don’t even know.”

Jon takes a gulp of his pink concoction. “Do you ever think they’ve got the right idea? I used to get laid all the time in New York,” he says, wistfully. “They hadn’t even invented Grindr yet, and it was still like—hot and cold running cock, twenty-four hours a day.”

Tommy does not want to hear about Jon’s access to Yankees-loving dick. “We’re busy and stressed,” he says. “It’s normal. Who has the energy to date, anyway?”

“No one said anything about dating,” Jon argues, tipping his glass dangerously far towards Tommy. “Cody certainly isn’t _dating_ any of those girls. Michael, okay, fine. But he’s in Personnel, that’s like barely a job.”

“You come in at ten in shorts,” Tommy says, even though he knows it’s undercutting his own point. Jon waves his hand—not the one holding his drink, at least.

“Exactly. Exactly. I could be staying up late with, you know, the handsome men of the capital city. That’s the, you know, the opportunity I’ve been denying myself.”

Tommy lifts his beer to his mouth too fast, and nearly chips a tooth hitting it against the bottle. He rubs at his mouth, and tries again, downing the remainder of the beer. “I guess you should do what you want,” he says. The tone isn’t right. He sets the bottle on the bar and waves for another one, pulling his wallet out. He’s so close to Jon it’s hard to maneuver, but there’s nowhere to step back, anyway.

“Look, we’ll get you laid too,” Jon says, soothingly. “I am an excellent wingman. Ask anyone.”

“Like who?” Tommy asks. “Who exactly have you wingmanned for?”

“Well—okay, but I _would_ be excellent at it, given a chance. I can do a very good ‘have you met Tommy?’ More than that, even. ‘Have you met Tommy? He’s a trust-fund kid with a public-service drive who likes dogs and kids, and his ass just does not quit. Marry him.’”

“Jesus, Lovett.” Tommy grabs for his new beer as soon as it’s in range, shoving cash into the bartender’s hand. “Let’s—let’s go back over there. They’re probably done talking about Congress by now.”

“They’re never done talking about Congress,” Jon says, darkly. “It never, ever ends.” The bar’s more crowded now, and Tommy puts a hand on Jon’s back to keep hold of him as they walk through it, then takes it off, then puts it back on. He can’t decide what’s weird and what’s normal anymore. Everything feels weird. This whole night has been weird. He should go home and sleep it off.

They find the guys, not as chatty now, everyone sneaking peeks at their phones. “Tommy’s going to let me be his wingman,” Jon announces to them, throwing an arm around Tommy’s shoulders. Well, up and around. “I’m going to be brilliant.”

Michael thumbs his phone off, slipping it in his pocket. “Huh, so people really do that open relationship stuff? I thought that was just, like, on TV.”

Tommy kicks Cody. Cody grabs Michael and whispers in his ear. Tommy doesn’t miss Michael’s incredulous expression—nor, probably, does Jon—but Michael straightens back up just saying, “Sorry, I was thinking of something else. Where are you going to wingman for him?”

Jon squints at the group of them, but whatever he thinks just happened, he doesn’t follow up on it. “I don’t know. Where do you pick up all those women you bring to the house? We’ll go there. Find Tommy one of them.”

“That’s not what Tommy’s looking for,” Dan says. “Tommy wants something long-term. Don’t you, Tommy?”

“Just because you’re old and married—” Cody starts, and then he and Dan are arguing, cheerfully, about the benefits and detriments of relationships. Tommy sighs out a breath of relief.

“I’m gonna go home,” he tells Jon. “Long day.”

“Okay, loser,” Jon says, and then, “No, wait, I’ll come with you. Can we get a cab? Michael, you coming?”

Michael shakes his head. He’s staring at them a little too hard, and Tommy’s glad to turn around and get out before anything else is said that might be ... misleading.

In the cab, he texts Cody, _thanks I guess. Can you tell Michael to chill._

Cody sends back, _You should think about why you don’t want Lovett to find out, that’s all I’m saying. He’d think it’s hilarious._

Tommy swallows and turns his phone all the way off. “Listen, let’s skip the wingmanning,” he says. “I’m okay. I don’t have time for a relationship.”

“True,” Jon says. “You spend all your time with us, though.”

“That’s the way I like it,” Tommy mumbles, staring at his hands. That _is_ the way he likes it. His whole routine is how he likes it. Busy and stressed and not enough sleep, but he comes home to his friends every night, and he and Jon are always lying around talking about ... life, and whatever. It’s good the way it is.

It would suck if Jon got a boyfriend, though, and wasn’t around as much. “I’ll think about it,” he says. “I guess.”

“I just want you to be happy,” Jon says, patting Tommy on the knee. Tommy wishes he were wearing shorts, and then leans over and puts his face in his hands for a moment trying to un-think it. “Are you okay?”

“Just tired,” Tommy says, muffled through his fingers. “Early day tomorrow.”

Jon drops a hand on his back, rubs his shoulder. “You should get a massage,” he says. “I’ll go with you if you want. Sunday?”

“Sure. Brunch first?”

“Only if we go to that place with the rosalitas. I love those.”

“You love them because they’re pink,” Tommy points out, sitting up. “They don’t even taste that much better than a regular daiquiri.”

“Many daiquiris are also pink, Tommy. Your knowledge of pink drinks is very limited and you should work on expanding it before you try to argue with me about this subject. Anyway, they serve that Turkish spread you like.” That’s true. Tommy does like that spread.

“Fine,” Tommy says. He can worry about everything later. Much later. Possibly never, if he focuses hard enough on repressing everything he’s learned tonight. That’s probably the best path forward. “Brunch, then massages. Deal. Hopefully we don’t declare a war between now and then.”

“Uh, is that likely?” Jon asks. “Is that actually potentially on the table?”

Tommy laughs and scratches his fingers through his hair. “No. No. I’m just—you know. Sorry. Dumb thing to joke about.”

“Like I don’t have enough heart attacks in my own job, Tommy. Just appalling. I demand to be soothed. Soothe me.”

Tommy could soothe him. He wants to kiss Jon’s temple, or the nape of his neck. Or he could nuzzle his throat and the crown of his head. Those would be soothing.

Tommy takes a deep breath and pats Jon’s shoulder. “It’s fine. The adults are in charge. You and Favs and all the other goofs are safe.”

“Insulting is not the same as soothing,” Jon says, but there’s a laugh in his voice. “You patronizing jerk.”

The cab pulls up to their house, and Tommy pays the driver before they step out. It’s gotten chillier. Tommy’s not ready for the fall to end yet. “See you tomorrow,” Jon says, heading up the stairs ahead of Tommy.

“Sleep tight,” Tommy says, too soft. Jon’s door closes. “Fuck,” Tommy mutters, even softer. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” Fuck Cody for telling him. Everything was good—Tommy’s whole damned life was _fine_ , it was _orderly_ , it made _sense_ , and now his head’s spinning and he can’t make it stop.

He lies down after a while, still in most of his clothes, and then wriggles out of them in hopes he’ll be able to sleep. That seems like a lost cause, but his doctor would say he should at least put the basic effort in.

He—okay. He can deal with this. He wants Jon. He’s maybe wanted Jon for a while now, if he lets himself think about it. Jon’s just always—there, and he’s funny and mean in that hot-girl kind of way, and he listens to Tommy when Tommy needs to talk through something, and he distracts Tommy when things are too much, and he knows what kind of breakfast food Tommy likes, and he’s the first person Tommy calls about anything, these days.

Oh, god. He maybe more-than-wants Jon.

He presses his face into the pillow and groans. Fucking Cody.

He more-than-wants Jon, and Jon wants to be his wingman. Jon wants to go fuck all the handsome men of the capital city. Jon doesn’t want Tommy at all.

Tommy gets up, puts on his sweats, and goes for a run. He hopes nothing explodes on his desk tomorrow, because he’s not going to be at his best. He hopes the espresso machine in the mess isn’t on the fritz again. He hopes this tightness in his chest will go away soon. He runs faster.

***

Tommy tries to hide in his room after work on Saturday. He’s been hiding from Jon since Thursday night. Jon’s noticed, maybe, because he pounds on Tommy’s door at seven. “Tommy! Tommy! Stop being anti-social, everyone’s here and they’re making me watch sports!”

Tommy shoves his head under his pillow and tries to drag it out. The knocking gets louder. “Tommy,” Jon shouts. “If you’re jerking off, can you just finish and get out here? Chop, chop! Get a move on! Think about Pamela Anderson! Is that what straight guys are into these days? Is that a dated reference? Think about Taylor Swift!”

“I hate you,” Tommy says, opening the door. “I wasn’t jerking off.”

“Then you should have answered faster,” Jon tells him. “C’mon. Favs is here, you love Favs.”

Tommy does love Favs. He blows out a breath and follows Jon to the living room, which is crowded with their friends, and not a few strangers. Michael’s already kissing some girl in the corner, although Cody’s on the corner of the couch all alone.

He high-fives Favs, a stupid series of movements they perfected in Chicago and haven’t grown up enough to stop doing. Jon rolls his eyes at their antics the way he always does. Tommy ignores him, like always. “Hey, man. Haven’t seen you around enough.”

Favs shrugs, grinning. “Well, I’ve been busy. I, uh, I met someone pretty cool, actually. Think she might be a keeper.”

“That’s great, man.” Tommy almost instigates the high-five sequence again, but settles for patting Favs’ arm. “When do I get to meet her?”

“You can have a double date,” Jon inserts, before Favs can answer. “I’m going to be wingmanning for Tommy. Find him a wife. I’m basically a yenta.”

“Wait, did you and Tommy break up?” Favs asks. “That sucks.”

“Um,” Jon says. “What?”

Favs makes an awkward face. “Sorry, were we not supposed to know about it? Forget I said anything.”

“You thought we were dating?” Jon says. Tommy sees Cody getting up and walking over to them, but it’s definitely too late, this time.

“Well, yeah,” Favs says.

“Of course we’re not dating. Tommy’s straight,” Jon scoffs. “Super easy-going straight, I grant you, but you’ve drawn a ridiculous conclusion.”

No one says anything. Cody and Favs are staring at Tommy.

“Uh, not—not as such,” Tommy says. His throat is dry, and his voice sounds wrong inside his head. “But that’s not the point. The point is—”

“Wait,” Jon interrupts. “That’s very much the point. Since when are you—no. You,” pointing at Favs, “You thought we were dating? On what evidence?”

Cody, looking guilty, breaks in. “It’s not just him,” he says. “Uh, to be fair. It’s everybody.”

Jon takes a deep breath. His mouth is open, but nothing comes out of it. Tommy is desperate to say something that will fix this, but he has no idea what that might be. “Okay,” Jon says finally. “I have to go be ... not here.” He’s out the front door before anyone moves, all of them standing awkwardly now.

“Wait,” Favs says. “Tommy and Lovett really aren’t dating?”

“I know, it’s weird,” Cody says. “Come over here and let’s leave Tommy alone.”

Tommy’s frozen. He feels like half the room is staring at him—probably more than half—but he can’t figure out where to go or what to do. He’s not even wearing shoes.

“Uh, you okay?” Sam ventures from behind him.

Tommy nods. He can’t speak or he’s going to—something. Become the actual Hulk, possibly. Or curl up into the fetal position and die.

Sam’s question at least snaps him out of it a little. He goes back upstairs and up onto the patio, which is empty and scattered with fallen leaves from the neighbors’ big oak. It’s too cold to be up here for long, but it means no one’s going to bother him, at least.

He looks down the street; Jon’s nowhere in sight, and his bike isn’t locked up in its usual spot. “Finds out people think we’re dating and flees the fucking house,” Tommy mumbles. “Great. Jesus.” Tommy’d known— _obviously_ , Tommy had known Jon wasn’t into him, what with all the fucking wingman talk and everything, but it still hurts. Jon usually makes a joke out of everything; he could have made a joke out of this and that would have hurt, too, but at least then Tommy wouldn’t be dreading the next time they have to talk.

Christ, they _live_ together. Tommy’s going to feel like this for weeks, maybe. Months, if he’s not careful. He pulls up Craigslist on his phone to look at apartment listings, and then grits his teeth and closes the page. He’s not that kind of coward, or anyway he doesn’t want to be.

He’s still standing up there, shivering, when Jon bikes back into view. He flings the bike up over the porch railing and just leaves it there, instead of locking it up, and comes around the back of the house to the kitchen entrance. Tommy supposes he gets that. He’ll still be visible to everyone when he gets to the stairs, but at least he doesn’t have to move through the whole crowd.

It’s probably safe, now, to go down to his own room and go to bed, if Jon’s in for the night. Maybe he’ll give it another half-hour, just in case, and let some of the party die down.

“Listen,” Jon says behind him, door slamming. “You knew they thought that, and you just—what, thought it was hilarious to be the only one in on the joke?” Tommy opens his mouth, and Jon yelps, “No! No talking! You _knew_ they thought it. I saw you looking at Cody. Like I’m some fucking joke to both of you.”

Tommy’s head is spinning again. “No—that’s not—I promise, that’s not right at all,” he says. “You’re not a joke to me. Or to Cody, for that matter, or to anyone. You’re—” his throat catches “—you’re our friend. You’re my best friend.”

Jon looks angrier, if anything. “But Cody knows you’re—whatever, bi—and I don’t. And Favs, I bet,” he adds, vicious. “Probably fucking everyone knows.”

“It’s not a secret,” Tommy says, getting defensive now. “You assumed, that’s not my fault.”

Jon’s arms are crossed so tight across his chest that he looks half his normal size, shrunk into himself. “You had a million fucking opportunities to correct the record and you know it,” Jon says. “You _know_ I wouldn’t have—” He stops, breathing hard. His fingers are digging into his bicep. “I wouldn’t have acted like a fucking idiot,” he says, finally, gaze falling away from Tommy’s.

“You haven’t,” Tommy says. “I don’t even know what that means. Unless you mean talking about Pamela Anderson, because yeah, that’s fairly idiotic, but I mean, I do like girls. It’s fine. That’s not—that’s not the issue.”

“You seem to know a fucking lot about what the issue is,” Jon spits. “Spokesman of the fucking month.” 

“I don’t know _anything_ ,” Tommy says, plaintive, and he means it. Everything about this is so confusing and fucked. “I don’t even get what you’re mad about.”

Jon leans back against the door, tips his head back to look at the sky. He looks more cold than mad, now. “I don’t fucking know,” he says. “Listen, I can’t do brunch. Or—any of it. I need a break. I’m sorry, I just, I need some time to, like, get my head on straight.” He scrunches up his face, almost smiles. “Or—you know what I mean.”

Twenty minutes ago, Tommy’d wanted the same thing, but there’s no reason Jon should. “Why?” he asks, instead of just taking it as the gift it is. “What do you need a break for?” Jon hates to be left out of things, he knows that, but surely Jon believes him that it wasn’t some joke they had on him, that he wasn’t sitting around with Cody and Favs and pretending to be dating Jon. He hopes Jon believes him. 

“Tommy, don’t—just don’t,” Jon says. “I’ll see you at work, or whatever.” He tips himself forward off the door and reaches for it, and Tommy grabs the handle. “Tommy, are you fucking kidding me with this.”

“Please just—it’s my fault, I get it, I’m sorry. I should have told you about what they thought when I found out. I told everybody it wasn’t true—I thought I’d told everybody—I didn’t think to tell Favs but everyone in the house knows it wasn’t true—and I should have told you but I didn’t want to make it weird and I didn’t want you to know that I, that I—I was selfish, I’m sorry. I liked being easy with you and I didn’t want it to get ruined.”

Jon’s angry again. Tommy can’t blame him. “Easy is a really fucking shitty word for—for whatever, letting me drool all over you when you knew I apparently wasn’t hiding it at all. Fuck.” He runs a hand under his nose and up the side of his face, and Tommy sees the shine beneath.

“What?” Tommy’s voice, in his own ears, sounds like Jon’s face looks.

“Don’t make me say any of that shit again,” Jon says.

Tommy runs it through his own head again, like a faulty tape recording of the last fifteen seconds. “You—drooling?”

“Fuck off,” Jon bites out.

“No,” Tommy says. His chest is tight again, but differently now. “Wait, I need to tell you something. Uh. If we’re being honest.”

It’s the way Jon reacts to that, curling away from him like Tommy might hit him, that forces the words out of his mouth. “I have a massive crush on you,” Tommy says. “Sorry, that sounds so middle-school, but—I do. I’ve been trying to, uh, deal with it. Not very well.”

Jon is uncurling, slowly, eyes trained on Tommy’s face. “You have a crush on me,” he repeats, sounding—incredulous. Tight. Angry, maybe.

Fuck. Tommy’s misread this. Tommy’s misread this so fucking badly. “Yes. Sorry. Sorry. Forget brunch, obviously. I’ll, I can move out, I was looking at Craigslist earlier anyway, it’s—we don’t even work in the same part of the building, I’ll, um. Sorry.”

He turns the door handle, but Jon leans on the door so Tommy can’t pull it open. “Um, don’t be sorry,” Jon says, and then, lighter, “I mean, obviously I’m irresistible.”

“Glad this is funny,” Tommy says, tightly. He can’t look at anything but the door handle.

“It’s a real farce,” Jon agrees. “Tommy. I have a massive crush on you, too.” He’s grinning, when Tommy lifts his gaze to Jon’s face. He’s _glowing_ , just about, as pleased as Tommy’s ever seen him, even with his eyes puffy and red. “Fuck, man.”

“Uh, yeah.” Tommy’s smiling, too. “That’s—great.”

“It is great. It’s terrific. Why are we just standing here talking about how great it is?”

Tommy doesn’t have a good answer to that. “Uh, because we’re friends and it’s awkward?”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious. That wasn’t actually a question, it was more of a suggestion that we—”

Tommy takes the suggestion, and kisses him. His mouth is warm and wet and his lips are salty, and it makes Tommy suddenly and vividly aware that it’s fucking freezing out here. He doesn’t care, though. Jon’s body is hot against his, and Jon’s hand sneaking up under his jacket to rest on his back through his t-shirt is warming him up in all new ways. “Fucking Cody,” Tommy says. “God, I’m gonna have to write him a thank-you note.”

“Let’s not talk about Cody,” Jon suggests. “Let’s go to your room and not talk about Cody.”

“Uh, yeah.” That sounds great. That sounds terrifying and great. God, Tommy hopes he remembers how to ... do stuff. It’s like riding a bike, right? It’ll come back to him.

The party’s still going when they creep downstairs, which feels good—it feels like cover, and like a fill for any awkward silences. The music and the hubbub are muffled once they’re in his room—neater than Jon’s, with a bigger bed, although, Tommy realizes a beat too late, completely devoid of condoms. Should he mention that now? Is that too presumptuous? He doesn’t want one of them to have to duck down the hall half-naked and half-hard, later, but—no. Too presumptuous.

They’re just standing there again. Tommy shoves his hands in his pockets, then pulls them back out. He just needs to think of something to say that will ... get them kissing again. Although there’s also a question he sort of wants to ask. “Why did you think I wouldn’t be into you?”

Jon snorts. “Why did I think my straight friend wouldn’t be into me? Because I wasn’t born yesterday? I—Tommy, I felt so fucking stupid, having a crush on you. It was like an awful high-school flashback, like, ‘he’s never gonna suck your dick, Lovett. Get it together, don’t be such a—’” He stops, before any part of the word emerges. Tommy wants, and deeply doesn’t want, to know what it would have been.

At least now he’s certain of what he can say to get them kissing again. “I guess you were wrong,” he says.

“Yeah, rub it in already,” Jon says, though he sounds pretty pleased about the reminder. “Not-straight Tommy Vietor the fourth.”

“I think probably the first of those,” Tommy says. “But I meant, uh. I definitely want to, uh, suck your dick. Actually.”

God, he hopes he remembers how to be good at this. At least the condom issue can wait.

Jon’s just staring at him, lips parted. He looks edible. He is not kissing Tommy again yet. “Uh,” Tommy says again. “If that’s ... okay.”

“No,” Jon tells him, dry as the Sahara. “No, I would like you to keep your mouth off my dick, obviously. Can’t believe you’d think I’d be into something like that, like some kind of pervert.”

Tommy grins, but still can’t quite manage to step forward. “Sorry, yeah, I know, I’m into some really kinky shit, you know—not just blowjobs, even, but like—kissing, very into kissing, but I imagine that’s way outside what you’re willing to do.”

“No more talking,” Jon says, and finally crosses the space between them and gets his hands on Tommy’s waist and his mouth back on Tommy’s mouth. No more talking sounds about right to Tommy, right now.

He shuffles them back to the bed after a minute, and tilts them down, trying not to lose the kisses as they go. Jon breaks away long enough to crab his way into the middle of it, elbows doing half the work, and Tommy climbs up over him. It’s heady, pressing Jon down into the bed. Jon must think so too; his hands are tangled in Tommy’s hair and he’s rocking his hips up. Tommy’s stupidly, massively hard, and Jon seems to be much the same. 

Tommy does want to blow him, but this is too fun to interrupt. It’s been forever since he just rolled around with someone, much less someone he really cared about. They’re still both wearing jackets, which feels ridiculous and wonderful at the same time. Tommy shimmies out of his own and goes for the zipper on Jon’s, kissing the skin at the top of his collar. “You’re chilly,” Tommy says, and then, grinning down at him, “shall I warm you up?”

“Am I going to be facing the full Vietor charm offensive now?” Jon demands, helping Tommy pull his jacket off. “Because I’ll tell you now, I’m too weak to you already.”

“Good.” Tommy presses the word into the side of his neck, fumbling for the hem of his t-shirt. “The guys are gonna be really confused about this, you know.”

“That’s their fault for assuming,” Jon says, which is maybe slightly hypocritical, but Tommy supposes he’s not going to point it out. Not while he’s got his fingers on the soft skin of Jon’s torso, and the prospect of feeling the rest of him soon. “We should just not say anything and see if they catch on.”

“Devious,” Tommy says. “I like it.” He dips down to mouth at the sensitive skin of Jon’s side, where Jon trembles every time Tommy touches him. It’s even better under Tommy’s tongue. Tommy remembers something else he used to like, something he thinks he’d like to do with Jon. “Hey,” he says. “Do you think they’d kill us if we took up the bathroom?”

“I think they owe us,” Jon says. “Anyway, they can use the downstairs one.” Tommy likes Jon getting right on board with him.

“Okay,” Tommy says, climbing off him. “Be sneaky, I guess.” They’re still fully clothed, but Tommy’s pants, at least, aren’t disguising his interest in the proceedings. The bathroom’s at the far end of the hall, away from the stairs, so they’re at least getting farther from the party instead of closer.

There’s no one inside. Tommy shuts the door behind them and locks it, and pulls his shirt over his head. “After you.”

“Not sure I thought this through,” Jon mumbles, staring at Tommy’s chest. “I suppose turning the light off would be too dangerous.”

Tommy pulls him in, swings him up against the door and leans up against him. “I’ve been wanting to see you for—well, sort of technically only for two days, but trust me, it’s really been longer. I’m just good at repression.”

“Aren’t we all,” Jon says. “Two whole days, huh. It’s, uh, probably good you didn’t say that part on the roof.”

Tommy smiles against Jon’s temple. “I want you,” he says. “A ton. A downright stupid amount. Just take your clothes off and let me touch you, okay?”

“Well, if you put it like that,” Jon says, and kicks out of his shoes.

Tommy ends up in the shower first, adjusting the temperature of the water. Jon climbs in behind him, pressing up against him even though there’s plenty of room. “Mm, very nice,” Tommy says, pulling Jon in closer and twisting his head back to kiss him. Jon’s warm and wet and so fucking bare against his back, and Tommy turns around to kiss him better, and to get his hands on Jon’s bare ass where he’s wanted them for—well, for at least two days.

“Subtle, Vietor,” Jon says, and then, “Was your plan to fuck in the shower? Because it’s never as good as you think it will be. Beds are so comfortable and hard to get a concussion in.”

“Not exactly,” Tommy says. “And not exactly the other thing we talked about, although believe me, I want to get to that. Just—let me touch you for a while.” That’s not the whole plan, but Tommy can’t quite get the words out of his mouth, and he figures Jon will figure it out once he gets started.

This, though, first. Jon’s skin feels perfect under his fingers; it’s headier to touch him than to be touched, almost. Jon’s soaping Tommy up, and Tommy lets himself sag against the tile—cold but not unbearable—to protect Jon from it and let him have the bulk of the warm spray. “This is nice,” Jon says, soft against Tommy’s jaw.

It is nice. It’s very nice. But the hot water won’t last forever, so Tommy peels himself reluctantly away from Jon and turns him around. “Put your hands on the wall, maybe?” Tommy says, and drops to his knees on the soft rubber bath mat.

That must be when Jon gets it; he makes a soft sound that’s hard to identify as anything besides a whimper, and drops his head between his arms. “You must be joking,” he says, but he isn’t moving, and Tommy can see his feet inching subtly apart.

“No,” Tommy says, kissing the small of his back. The water’s running in rivulets down his back and Tommy starts with his fingertips and a bit of soap, just to make sure they get the full benefits of moving to the shower. When he’s sure he’s washed away all of the soap, he thumbs Jon’s cheeks apart and gets his tongue on him. “Fucking—yes,” Jon says, too loud, echoing in the bathroom. Tommy hopes, face hot, that the whole goddamn house heard it, even through the pounding party music.

Jon’s soft wrinkled hole is perfect under Tommy’s tongue. This has been in his jerk-off litany for years—giving and receiving, but especially giving. Pressing his tongue in and hearing the catch of breath, feeling the thigh muscles tightening. It’s way better with Jon than with any memory or faceless fantasy, knowing that he’s making Jon feel this good and dirty and maybe loved, too. 

Jon’s not just breathing heavier; he’s muttering praise and goading into the wall. “Fucking—faster, like that, yes, just like that, fuck, you’re so good, you’re so—Tommy, fuck, _fuck_ , need more, I can’t, you’re fucking killing me. Need your fucking mouth, Tommy. Don’t stop.”

Tommy has no plans to stop, not with Jon urging him on like that, not when Jon’s hand is coming off the wall to fist his own cock, just out of Tommy’s view. It’s hot just seeing his arm moving in Tommy’s peripheral vision, but he wants to get the full show sometime soon. He can picture it so well—Jon jerking off for him, maybe while Tommy reminds him of this moment, of the way Jon’s ass tightened as he got closer, the way Tommy sucked at his rim to make him gasp and beg for more. 

“Please, Tommy, fucking please, so fucking close, just—”

Tommy gets his thumb up to rub while he frees his mouth just long enough to say “tell me what you need.”

Jon whines, and his arm moves faster still. “You—fingers, put your fingers in me, anything.”

The water’s ruining all the slickness of Tommy’s spit, so he gropes for an alternative and comes up with someone’s conditioner—Jon’s own, maybe. It’ll do the job, in any case, and he pours some onto shaking fingers and presses two fingertips into Jon. He takes them easily, and Tommy slides them up, wishing he could circle his tongue around them, but not at all willing to swallow any of the improvised lube. He settles for licking the sensitive seam of Jon’s thigh instead, up under the curve of his ass. “Tommy, Tommy,” Jon’s chanting, and it sounds better than anything Tommy’s ever heard in his fucking life.

He bites him there, on the soft meat of his ass, and curls his fingers. Jon jerks back into them and nearly loses his balance, and Tommy curves his body around Jon’s hip to watch him come all over the tiles.

They both stop, breathing heavily, and Tommy pulls his fingers out and gently aids the water in washing most of the conditioner off of Jon.

Jon’s still braced away from the wall when Tommy stands up and presses in close behind him. The water’s losing its warmth, but Jon isn’t; he’s hot and perfect against Tommy. “Give me a second and I’ll do whatever you want,” Jon says. “Fuck. That was—really good.”

“I liked it too,” Tommy says, kissing Jon’s neck. “Can you just … close your legs a bit?”

Jon twists his head back and lifts an eyebrow at him. “You really did go to prep school,” he says, but he’s moving his feet together, too. 

Tommy’s still clutching the conditioner, and he slicks himself up with it before pushing between Jon’s thighs. “Jesus,” Tommy groans, and tucks his face into Jon’s shoulder. “Jesus fucking—you feel so good, Jon.”

“Wait until you try the real thing,” Jon says, with a laugh in his voice. “Go on, give it to me, big boy.”

It might be mean, from someone else, but it’s also exactly what Tommy loves about Jon—his fond complaining, the way he shows he cares with sarcasm. “Brunch is back on, by the way,” Tommy says, “but I think let’s skip the massages and do something else for stress-relief.”

“Deal,” Jon says. He pulls Tommy in tighter against him, wrapping Tommy’s arm around his chest and gripping Tommy’s wrist. “This is stupidly hot, you fucking my thighs. It shouldn’t be but it really is.”

“Everything about you is stupidly hot,” Tommy tells him, and means it so much at this moment. “You know, everyone thinks we’re the, the kings of PDA. We don’t have any reputation to tarnish if we just start groping each other all over the place.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jon says. “Fuck, I want to feel you come.” Tommy digs his fingers into Jon’s side and complies, more from inevitability than the request. He bites Jon’s shoulder and manages to keep his knees locked so they don’t both go down.

Tommy never wants to move; being pressed up against Jon, tip to toe, feels like heaven in this moment. But the water’s outright cool now, and they’re about to be sticky, and he’s still holding some much-abused conditioner in one hand. “I hope this is yours,” Tommy says, waving the bottle for Jon to see.

“Nope,” Jon says, cheerfully. “But they deserve it.”

“Yeah,” Tommy agrees, setting the bottle back among the others. “Here, I’ll rinse you off.” He crouches to rub the conditioner and come off the insides of Jon’s thighs, taking the opportunity to kiss the outsides of them as he does it.

They stumble out of the shower and notice, with the water finally off, that the house is quiet. “How long were we in there?” Tommy asks, and Jon shrugs, handing him a towel. It’s not Tommy’s towel, so he swaps it for the right one and gets himself mostly dried off.

“Shall we get dressed to sneak back out, or—”

“No, fuck it,” Jon says, tying his towel around his waist. He gathers up his clothes in one hand. “You know, we could order brunch in.”

“That’s a definite maybe,” Tommy says. He gets his own towel situated and nods for Jon to open the door.

Cody and Michael are nowhere to be seen. “Go, go, go,” Tommy urges Jon, laughing, and they trip over themselves getting into his room and the door shut behind them. They drop everything, towels and clothes and shoes, and crawl under Tommy’s quilt, Tommy squeezing in tight against Jon. “Oh, fuck,” he says, suddenly remembering. “I don’t have any condoms. I mean, not for right this minute, obviously, just—you know, whenever.”

“Tragic,” Jon says, laughing. “I think we’ll manage. I probably have something.” He lays a hand on Tommy’s chest, like he’s feeling Tommy’s heartbeat. “I think we’ve learned a life lesson today about … assumptions, probably.”

“Oh, good,” Tommy says. “A moral.”

“I’m basically an Aesop’s fable come to life,” Jon says. “I’m wise beyond my years.”

“Are you the one about the crocodile?” Tommy asks him, in fake sincerity. “Or the one about the shrew?”

“You’re the one about the shrew,” Jon says, rolling up on top of Tommy under the quilt. “You’re the one about the scorpion, probably.”

Tommy grins up at him. His chest hurts again. It feels amazing. “Sorry I ever doubted your wisdom,” he says. “I should have known you’d have the good taste to have a crush on me.”

“I’m regretting it now, let me tell you,” Jon says, and kisses him.

Late the next morning, Cody knocks on Tommy’s door. “Tommy, you want to come to the flea market with us?”

“He’s busy!” Jon shouts back. Tommy is, at that moment, very busy, fulfilling a promise from the night before. His mouth is too full to talk.

“I fucking knew it,” Cody says. “I mean, congratulations and shit!”

“Thanks! Go away now!”

Cody goes away. Jon puts his hands in Tommy’s hair, and Tommy makes a mental note to take Cody out for dinner in thanks for accidentally setting this in motion. Then he gets back to work.


End file.
